


The Lesser Monster

by wrothmothking



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Anidala Week 2020, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Body Horror, Character Death, F/M, Gore, Slavery, Suicidal Thoughts, Tags May Change, That's Not How The Force Works, Torture, sheev is a petty bitch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:07:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24050329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrothmothking/pseuds/wrothmothking
Summary: Pooja and Ryoo trespass onto Lord Vader's palace grounds. Someone must pay the price.Prompt: Fairy Tales
Relationships: Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> setting is vague medieval europe au, sith have future tech a la castlevania/howl's moving castle. guns and communicators have become widespread since he took over 5 years ago, lots of tech demonized 'cause of how Awful the empire is/sith are
> 
> this was supposed to be a short one-shot but I got lost, so, uh, it's not done. apologies. another chapter or 2 and it should be done! <3

Blood shines in the dawning light. Gravity was not so kind as to break Sio Bibble's neck; he'd died of strangulation, his attempts to break the rope tearing through the soft skin of his hands, splattering the hanging tree with his lifeblood as his tendons were shredded by the harsh grain. The newest victim of the Emperor's tyranny.

Later, she will have him cut down. Later, she will have him buried—or bury him herself, should none of her village want to bear the risk with her. Padmé was his mayor. It was in her court that Sio had spoken his blasphemy, condemning the mass enslavement of the twi'leks. It was her responsibility to protect him.

And she had failed.

Padmé kneels before the tree. Before her friend. Never again would they have tea together on those lazy afternoons when it was too hot to do anything else but lounge under the sun, arguing the philosophies of a simpler time. Never again would he send her begging looks as Pooja tugged hard on his beard and Ryoo rifled through his pockets for pretty baubles to give the cats. Things that had made them closer than simple colleagues, for all the times they'd go weeks without a thought to visit one another. And now he is gone.

She wipes the tears from her face, lays her hand upon the earth in a moment of abject grief. Then that grief goes into a box as she rises to her feet.

A branch breaks behind her. She steels her spine, turns to find her sister trudging the garden path. Sola's in her nightgown, the blue silk failing to accentuate her beauty half as well as it adds to the gray complexion of her skin. Tangles of hair, with the help of the dim early morning, hide her face. For a moment, Padmé thinks she's sleepwalking like she did in their youth. For a moment, Padmé thinks she'll follow the bend of the bricks that led her here, leave before she discovers what's become of their oak tree. But bare feet stop before Sola can make the turn. She lifts her head.

“So the morning _can_ get worse.”

“Sola?”

“I'm sorry, Sister. My news can wait until we get this man in the ground.”

Padmé closes the distance between them, holds her sister's hands in her own. “Sola, what's wrong? You're trembling.”

“Sio's dead!” she wails, the identity of the corpse swinging in the breeze finally sinking passed sorrow already there. “ _Oh._ Oh, why is all this happening?”

“Come, let's go inside.”

“What about him?”

“Typho and Panaka will be by on their rounds soon. They'll get him down.”

“O-okay. Alright.”

“Inside,” Padmé whispers, hoping her smile does anything to comfort her sister's flagging spirit. “Do you want to wake Mom and Dad?”

“No,” Sola says, but once they've reached the back door she changes her answer.

“Could you wake them while I put on some tea?”

Tea. Sola doesn't like tea; she likes fruity drinks loaded with alcohol. Padmé takes the steps with her heart in her throat, wondering what could have possibly gone so wrong without her knowing. It could be no small thing, even combined with seeing Sio like that; Sola had met Sio twice, and though his daughters had liked him well from his untimely visits when Padmé babysat the girls, they have survived loss before. Sola has not been so affected by anything since finding her own husband strung up, and two others have passed the same way since that day, so it's unlikely that a mirror of old pain is causing this.

Passing the hall of her sister and nieces' quarters, Padmé considers checking on Pooja and Ryoo, but decides not to risk waking them.

Her mother is already awake, a book in her lap and her husband's arm across her thighs. At the door's creak, Jobal looks up.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” she whispers, closing the book on her feather bookmark. “Is something wrong?”

“Wake Dad. We need to have a family meeting.”

Message deliverd, Padmé returns to her sister. Sola has made tea as she promised, her favorite of the Naberrie House's china set atop the dining table. Standing by her seat, knuckles white around the table edge, Sola doesn't respond to Padmé calling her name, touching her shoulder.

But then their parents arrive, and Sola collapses into her chair, life sparking back into her eyes as Jobal comes to fuss over her. Ruwee extracts Padmé with gentle tugs, pulling her into a hug.

And the hug is nice, wonderful, very comforting, but what she _needs_ is to hear what troubles Sola so she can get to work _fixing it_. Agitation paces 'round her skull like a panther in a box as the seconds tick by.

Finally, she is released. Her and her father sit, and as he pours them both a cup she turns her attention back onto Sola. Her hair is up in its usual bun, if unbrushed; it's sufficient for her to look like herself again.

“Sio Bibble is dead,” Padmé says to break the ice.

Jobal gasps, her hand darting across the table to hold her daughter's. Ruwee swallows and wordlessly passes her teacup to her, the near-painful heat leeching into her skin working to ground her as the grief she's been trying to bury threatens to surge to the forefront. Overtake her.

“I'm so sorry, honey. He was a good man.”

“Damn empire,” Ruwee snarls. “We're not safe here; none of our people are.”

“We can't just leave, Dad.”

“The Hutts are still the authority in the south, and I've heard whispers the rebels in the east are getting organized-”

“The Hutts are slavers and drug-runners,” Sola cuts in, voice stripped raw and icy. “As for this so-called rebellion, let's not forget what allowed the emperor's rise to power to begin with.”

Ruwee deflates. Cooperation between Palpatine and Lord Tyrannus prior to the latter ceding control of the kingdom his separatists had forged may be unaffirmed, but it did birth suspicion regarding the movements to dethrone him; they could be traps orchestrated by the emperor himself, or bids to power by men even worse. Padmé knows that is why Palpatine allows the rumor.

Sola continues, “I was born here, I will die here, and I _will_ be buried alongside my husband. I only pray my children find their way home before it happens.”

“What?” Ruwee squawks.

“What children? Do you have other children we don't know about, young miss?” Jobal questions.

“Sola,” Padmé starts, her blood running cold, “where are Pooja and Ryoo?”

“Padmé-”

“The back door was unlocked when I got up. That's why I went out there, to investigate...”

Ryoo sleepwalked, and Pooja, never one to rest easy, always rose to follow her. Sio was killed in their garden. Imperials were in their garden.

Jubal pales. Ruwee, queasy, presses a palm to his mouth, the sparse wrinkles lining his face pulling taut with emotional strain.

“They weren't taken,” Sola sobs. “Or at least the missive they sent claims otherwise.”

“A missive? _Already_?” Jubal scoffs. “Have they nothing better to do than steal our children?”

From her gown's pocket, Sola pulls a crumbled note. Taking it, Padmé reads aloud:

“ _To the Noble House Naberrie:_

_Pooja and Ryoo Naberrie, daughters of Sola Naberrie and Darred Janren Naberrie, blood heirs and legal wards of your house, have been remanded into imperial custody following their trespass onto a Sith Lord's palace grounds. This is a Tier 2 infraction._

_The presiding officer, Grand Moff Willhuff Tarkin, has decided on conscription into imperial service. Pooja and Ryoo Naberrie will, from now until death, serve their lord. To petition, please contact your governor..._

This is inhuman.”

“It doesn't even specify the Sith!” Ruwee complained. “Who do we go to to get them back? 'Cause that Tarkin-”

“It said _our_ lord. That's Grievous, isn't it?”

“Would sooner have us _shot_ -”

“Utapau's weeks away. Would it not be in the palace they _trespassed_ on?”

“Than help us!”

Padmé sips her tea, pretending not to taste her own anguish. Tarkin is not an option; during her time in Palpatine's court, her and he were on opposite sides of every issue. Even were he a well-intentioned man possessing empathy, she doubted he could find a shred of good will for her nieces. And...

And, perhaps it was no coincidence. Sio Bibble, her friend and their governor before Tarkin. Her family, suddenly short two innocent children.

“Say this thing is true,” Ruwee pokes the offending paper, “two kids are up wandering around. They hear something outside, go out to witness Bibble's execution, flee the wrong way through the back gate and into the woods. And somehow they make it to, where? Mandalore? Coruscant? In time for us to get this nonsense through the mail slot before half of us are awake?”

“They could have gotten to Mustafar,” Padmé admits.

Three pairs of eyes dart to her. Slowly, Ruwee closes his mouth, his brows furrowing. His wife, meanwhile, appears almost _relieved_.

“If it is a conspiracy, Mustafar is the only option to maintain plausibility.”

“The empire isn't known to care for subtlety,” Jobal argues, regretful.

“But the emperor is known to be fond of his star pupil.”

“Sola!”

“She still gets _cards_ from him, Mom!”

“You loved him too,” Padmé whispers. “He was like our uncle.”

“ _I'm not the one who made him king_.”

Padmé stands.

Sola flinches, shoulders drooping, refuses to meet her gaze.

Jobal looks between them, wringing her hands. Ruwee stares at the painting behind Sola.

“If you honestly believe he will hesitate to kill me as soon as it benefits him in some small way, you are a bigger fool than I ever was.”

It's the truth, and it will haunt her nightmares.

It's a truth Sola sees, and it spawns fresh tears in her eyes as she sobs, “I'm sorry, Padmé.”

Her heart crumbles. Padmé circles the table, Sola extending her arms to grab for her soon as she comes into reach. Her sister pulls her down into her lap, clutching tight around her ribs as she sobs into Padmé's bosom. Padmé pets her sister's hair, murmuring sweet comforts, and the world narrows to the two of them.

“They'll be alright,” she promises. “We'll get them back.”

* * *

“If you don't mind my saying, ma'am, I don't agree this is the best course.”

“I don't mind, but neither will I be persuaded.”

Typho sighs. “If you were not dressed for battle, I would worry less.”

“Relax, Captain. I'm confident diplomacy will win the day.”

Yet she is riding to Mustafar on horseback with a small strike force and her sister instead of in a carriage with full entourage. She is dressed not in ceremonial gowns, but in an all-white suit, and though the hidden knives are nothing new the pistol holstered on her thigh and the rifle strapped to her back certainly are. No messenger was sent to request an audience, or even warn of their impending arrival.

“Vader is an unknown. Whether he's human at all or another blasted droid-”

“Be he machine or man, we will treat him with dignity and honor. Maybe he'll repay us the same.”

Padmé misses R2-D2. She also knows she was right to leave him in the capital.

Typho frowns, expression distant.

Battle droids attacked them one autumn, killing many guardsmen and burning their crops. A conflict time and the greater war with the separatists allowed Padmé to recover from, to hide behind the admission of good tactics. Naboo was—is, bountiful. They keep near everyone in their region fed over the harsh winter.

But a decade means more headstones, not less.

“What do we know of Vader?” she asks, an olive branch and a distraction.

“Not much. He's at court often, but he doesn't speak. Just watches from the corner.”

“Is he ordered there?”

“Unclear. His only public interaction with the emperor was his appointment as Tyrannus's replacement two years ago.”

“Which was two years after his death. Was the position kept open for him?”

“I hope that's rhetorical.”

Padmé laughs. “Yes. Vader is a recluse, then?”

“Seems that way. He can't exactly blend into a crowd.”

So he isn't an assassin like Maul, or throwing lavish parties and parades like Tyrannus, wasting the public funds that once fed and clothed the poor. What role does he fill, then?

She's unaware she'd voiced the question until Typho answers: “Special operations? He has his personal legion, the 501st. Intel on them is sparse, though; stictly off-book, operating solely at Vader's discreation. I hear they bleed.”

They crest a hill.

Here, the land is scarred from war. Craters riddle the terrain. Trees are few and far between, their small stature belying their young age. The ruins of a village, a mere two houses intact enough to be recognizable as such. Dozens of makeshift crosses denote where the dead had to be buried instead of sent home, be it because of natural disease, lack of remains, or the separatists' biological warfare—or because home _was_ the village. In the distance, a volcano. Constructed in its shadow, appearing to be crafted from black glass, is Vader's castle, massive and impregnable.

“I didn't think it would look like this,” Sola whispers, her first words since they'd set out.

“Mustafar was a small village,” Padmé says, and though it's the truth, the words are a small comfort.

“The mine demanded more, but not many were willing to live in view of that thing.” Typho shakes his head. “The Jedi forbade it.”

“The Jedi are dead, Captain.”

Padmé smiles, bitterness-laced optimism unfurling beneath her breastbone.

“That's what they said about the Sith.”

The reminder eases some of the tension as they make their descent into Mustafar.

Palpatine is Sith, Maul, Vader, and Grievous, too. Count Dooku was Sith, immortalized as Tyrannus. If they survived Jedi, surely a handful of Jedi could survive them.

Feeling restless, Padmé dismounts from her horse. She waves for Typho and Sola to continue at their pace, falling towards the back of the pack as she pours water into a dish and offers it to her mare. The affectionate nibbling on her fingers heals something within her.

“Do you think they didn't want people here because they suspected the Sith were still around?” Padmé overhears one guardswoman mumble to another.

“Surely they would've moved on the castle?”

“Maybe they knew they'd lose.”

The final guardsman pipes up with, “I heard the kids they were tagging as sensitive were getting nabbed right under their noses, but it was always through intermediaries. Mercenaries and slavers.”

“Yeah, and knights kept going missing. Turning up dead.”

“Not to mention the war.”

“Which caused a lot of infighting. A bunch of 'em left.”

“I wonder if they survived, or if the Sith-”

“Shh!”

Ah, they noticed.

Padmé assumes an act of ignorance. Idle gossip is hardly a crime—or, at least, it shouldn't be.

“I half-expected to find someone here,” tells Sola. “For it to actually be abandoned...It's unsettling.”

“Oh, there's plenty of people here. They're just not alive to greet us.”

The guardsman ignores the glares from his fellows. The rest of their trek is passed in silence.

There's a wall circling the perimeter, but its gate is rusted open. The landscaping is overgrown, a space where nature has flourished. Birdsong welcomes them, and their arrival startles a mother deer and her fawn into flight, disappearing into the thicket. A dragonfly hovers in Padmé's face, inquisitive.

They cross a wooden bridge over a river. A hawk swoops down after a mouse. It's strange, beholding such liveliness and serenity so soon after being faced with death. Padmé doesn't know how it connects to Vader; is he a naturalist, or does he not see to the maintenance of his grounds out of, what? Apathy or laziness? She approves the outcome, but it is not what is demanded of a lord.

A man in heavy armor, white, blue accents, steps onto the path, a golden-plated droid at his side.

Typho dismounts at once, hand on his blaster, the guardsmen stumbling to do the same. Padmé rushes to the front, dodging Typho's grab for her shoulder, hands held out for peace.

Thankfully, the trooper doesn't respond to the aggression, instead looking to the droid.

“Oh, hello! I am C-3PO, human-cyborg relations. Welcome to Fortress Vader! What can I help you with today, madam?”

“Thank you. I am Padmé Amidala, mayor of Naboo. I have come to discuss an important matter with Lord Vader. Is he here?”

“A-ah, I see. Yes, Master Vader is here. If you like, I could steer you to the stables while my friend here informs Master Vader of your arrival.”

“Thank you, 3PO.”

“Not at all, Mistress Padmé!”

The trooper, revealed to be a soft-spoken young man, leaves as ordered, and the droid leads them where he'd said, chattering all the while.

Horses of many breeds and colors run free through the stables and the large fenced-in area surrounding them. After they've released theirs to join the herd, C-3PO regales them with unwanted news: “I'm afraid only one guard is allowed per dignitary, Mistress Amidala.”

“Why is that?”

“Master Vader dislikes entertaining large companies.”

As C-3PO has said nothing about her weapons, Padmé acquieses without fuss. Typho and Sola will alone accompany her into the palace.

Before the empire, Naboo'd had a castle of its own, from a time when they'd stood as an independent city-state. Years since its deconstruction, it remains where Padmé spent the majority of her life. So, she is not awed by the massive doors, the foyer containing all the square footage of her family estate and then some. She is not taken aback by the beautiful artwork, the glittering jewels, the opulent throne room. Her only surprise is that they are led out of this chamber, into a hall where they pass a hundred sealed rooms, possessing no handle or other perceivable method of entry.

No, the three of them are led deep into the castle, into a dining room. Its simple, comparatively; no furniture beyond the obvious required for it to serve its function. The side walls are made of glass, the left a mirror, the right a window into the wilderness outside. An ebony table capable of seating sixteen sits in the center, set for a mere four: the head, and three beside it.

C-3PO ushers them to their seats, crafted of matching wood and inlaid with crimson velvet. And terribly uncomfortable.

“I fear Master Vader will disagree, but it is _so nice_ to have guests! Excuse me, I will be back with lunch!”

She hasn't long to suffer before she watches their host trudge in through the far door. He's unlike anything she's encountered, tall as any man, darned in black metal, sparse silver accents glinting in the electric candelabra. Switches and buttons mark his chest. A human skull mask appraises her. Heavy boots thunder, raising goosebumps on her skin. There's no wind, and yet the cape flutters.

Vader makes for an imposing figure, but Padmé feels no trepidation. What she finds instead is curiosity.

“I am honored you could join us,” he hails, as though they'd come by invitation.

Padmé regards him closely, frowning as the respirator reaches her ears. It wounds pained, laborious. Is the suit a matter of choice, or of survival? Are all of Palpatine's lords broken beyond repair, kept alive by his machinery? A hard chain to break.

Sola shoots her a nervous glance as Vader sits between them. Padmé shines a beatific smile on them both, folding her hands on the table. Away from her guns. A sign of trust, indistinct to avoid circling around to insulting.

“Thank you for having us, Lord Vader.”

C-3PO returns then, pushing a tray laden with fruits, steaks, and sweets for them to gorge themselves on. Proving himself unpredictable, Vader stands to help the droid serve, notably placing nothing on his plate.

“Ah, that's smooth,” Typho hums.

“I'm glad you enjoy.”

Sola's slurping speaks for itself. Padmé limits herself to small sips; the circumstances are appropriate, and it _is_ good wine, but a lifetime in politics has taught her to mind her alcohol.

It's awkward, eating in front of someone abstaining, who may, in fact, not be able to. Impatience builds in her sister, leaves scratches on the table where her nails dig into the grain, a crime worthy of death in the wrong audience.

Vader follows her gaze to the damage, and then goes back to staring at her. The attention evaporates any relief his disinterest birthed. It's not unpleasant, exactly, but it is _odd_.

“I have a confession, Lord Vader. I introduced myself as Padmé Amidala, but my house is Naberrie.”

“Yes, I know. You are here for the girls.”

“Their names are Pooja and Ryoo,” Sola interjects, sneering.

“I know the names of every soul under my command, I assure you. Once their fate has been decided, I will have them summoned.”

“'Their fate'? You can't keep them!”

“No, the opposite. I cannot let them go.”

“That's monstrous!”

“It is also reality.” Vader peers at her, a menacing element unveiling in his aura. “Twice now, you have raised your voice at me in my home. A third, and you will be _removed_.”

“I'm sorry, Lord Vader. We mean no offense,” Padmé assures.

Vader nods. “Only my master may override the Grand Moff's decision. If you want me to release the girls, I require something of equitable value in trade.”

“Like what?” scoffs Typho. “The empire's taken everything of value.”

“What about the Naberrie estate?” Sola offers.

“Naboo is Grievous's domain.”

Padmé searches her mind for any kind of option, coming up blank on all counts. And then his staring begins to make an awful sort of sense.

“What about me?”

“ _Padm_ _é_!”

“Done.”

“No, undone,” Typho refuses.

“Can I not stay?” Sola asks.

“You would rather three of you be slaves than one?”

“No, Lord Vader,” Padmé answers. “I will stay with you, and they will leave.”

“Very well. C-3PO, locate Pooja and Ryoo Naberrie and bring them here.”

“Yes, Master Vader. Happy to welcome you aboard, Mistress Padmé!”

Padmé smiles weakly after the droid. The words warm her.

Typho glares, barely holding his tongue against the fury raging within. Sola plays with her food, a mix of deliverance and despair occupying her.

Pooja and Ryoo squeal when they see their mother, running to meet her, nearly knocking her to the ground with the power of their embrace. C-3PO coos at the display, a familiar friend rocking in glee beside him.

“R2?” Padmé stands.

It's him! R2-D2 beeps enthusiastically, rolling over to her for a reunion of their own. His knocks against her shins sting, but she doesn't mind. This brave little droid who saved her life is here! Still functioning, in good repair.

“Mistress Padmé, you know this miscreant?”

“I do,” she answers sweetly, petting R2's dome.

If Vader minds her distraction, or the connection, he does not express it.

“I believe it's time for you to leave, Miss Naberrie, Captain Typho.”

The announcement is ice water flushing her veins. A friend she'll have, but he is a paltry comfort with her freedom, her home, her duty as mayor taken from her.

Her nieces rejoice, unknowing of their aunt's fate. Distracted by their cheer, Padmé doesn't see Vader leave.


	2. Chapter 2

His false legs scream as he kneels on the holopad, for all that they don't make a sound(--the medical droids keep him functional, would even against his will. The very idea of refusal is so exhausting, his notorious spirit long ago scraped out of this failing body). Vader feels their protest in the lines of burning, pulsating pain where metal meets flesh.

His master's greeting allows him to raise his head, finding sick, serpentine amusement shining in his eyes, a sight no less nauseating for the blue coloring.

“I hear a ghost of Anakin Skywalker's past has joined your retinue, Lord Vader.”

Denial is pointless. Sidious knows the answer to every question he poses; answers are not what he seeks. This is a _game_ , one Vader will not be allowed to win no matter the effort or advantage given.

“Yes, my master.”

“Grand Moff Tarkin disapproves of the alteration. He believes you should have killed the girls on the spot for their insolence.”

Vader strangles the panic. It's not a threat―not _yet_.

“ _I knew you would come for me, Anakin.”_

“And does my master agree?”

“No. Amidala is beloved by the people, and a force to be reckoned with. Emboldening her to start a revolt founded on two dead children...Tarkin forgot the limits of force. The weapon is years from completion.”

The weapon.

Distaste swirls into a sandstorm of rage in his mind, but Vader remains prostrated before the emperor. He knows his place.

“Securing her in custody until our rule's secured across the continent is the best course. A noble sacrifice, yes, however, possible only within our flexible legal system and the mercies of its overseers.”

“And after?”

“She will die.”

“ _I'm glad to have met you, Anakin!”_

“As you wish, Master.”

The call disconnects. Vader stands, the furnace of his heart turned cold by three simple words. When will her time come? Months or years?

He never thought he would see her again. That itself is its own torture; he is not the Jedi he promised he would be, and neither has he married her as he swore he would. He is a monster, she his prisoner, trapped in his fist until he is given the order to _squeeze_.

C-3PO enters his chambers, saying not a word as he delivers a collection of datapads to his desk. Anakin had built him from scrap as a gift to his mother, enduring the cold glances and nasty words; such tech was _alien, forbidden, forgotten for good reason_. The Jedi were going to take him away. The Hutts would have his insides strewn through the market; no one likes a _smart_ slave. The technology was of the dark side, scorned by the human-dominated Republic they were nominally part of until the separatists forced their abandoning of a century's worth of beliefs, the bloodshed drowning out even the Jedi's objections.

His droid doesn't remember. His memories are wiped at each of Vader's missteps, backed up now by the R2 unit who'd saved their lives, once. But C-3PO will never remember Tatooine, or Anakin, or _Mom_.

“Is-is there anything else, Master Vader?”

“No, 3PO. You may leave.”

Vader's jealous of his ignorance. _He_ isn't haunted by Shmi's anguished expression, barely able to see him through eyes caked with blood, mouth dryer than the sand dunes, so _small_ and _fragile_ from weeks of starvation and dehydration, the few words she could manage hoarse, filled with the desperation to soothe him even as her life slipped away under his fingers while he cried and begged her to _stay_.

_He_ isn't haunted by the carnage he'd wreaked upon the Tusken Raiders, the mindless slaughter of every soul within a mile of him, his body possessed by some horrible beast―a preview of what he would become. _He_ doesn't shiver at the memory of Sidious's cloying hands on his shoulders, his voice slithering through his ears in a mockery of compassion, and drown in shame for every shred of comfort he'd taken from the embrace. Sidious orchestrated it, framed Dooku, and like a good hound Vader'd beheaded him seconds after receiving what he'd so craved: permission.

And that dreadful hole that spawned inside when the Jedi took him, or the first time Watto struck him, or, perhaps, the first time he saw through his mother's lies about the shadows curling over her cheek, it scabbed over. Went away. For a while.

What will be left of him after Padmé _'_ s taken?

* * *

Padmé wanders the halls, invisible in her handmaiden's disguise―to the other guests. Guards swathed in red stare after her, each of them twice her height and radiating the cold hostility of the open ocean. Every step, every stuttered exhale is examined with distant, disgruntled consideration, like she's a verminous creature they're tracking to find her nest. There is no individual outlier; they are of one consciousness, one soul. A hive mind, focused entirely on her.

A squadron of clones walks passed, and―that's not right. The Kaminoans haven't traded them for the island east of their continent yet.

The disturbance fades from her mind as they pass from her sight.

She can no longer hear the jubilance of party-goers abandoned in the main hall, their host and now their child ruler having left to attend to Naboo's reconstruction. Her heart speeds as some unfounded panic builds within her breast, the stifling silence, the caustic glares-

“Fear not, young Skywalker. You may not have found your destiny amongst the Jedi, but _I know_ there is greatness in your future. They know it, too, but instead of nurturing your potential they've decided to cast it aside...”

Padmé follows the voice into their freshly-elected king's chambers. A boy with hair the color of the sand dunes amongst which she'd met him sits curled upon a sofa, tears streaking down his face. Palpatine's right arm hugs him into the elder's side, his right resting gently on Anakin's knees. It's an innocent picture. It curdles something wretched in her gut all the same.

“I am neither so cowardly nor so foolish. Please be assured, you _do_ have a place here.”

Chills run up her spine. Veins highlighted by age darken, and as blackened fingertips pat Ani's cheek, the corruption spreads, spiderwebs to his eyes and down to his neck, sclera shifting to black, tears changing the same and growing thick as tar and Anakin _chokes_ , no longer able to breathe-

Padmé moves to intercede-

A man perhaps twenty-years-old smiles at her, the open admiration of his gaze turning her frozen insides to hot, mushy goo. The reaction puzzles her― _troubles_ her, more like―until she recognizes him.

She is no longer a governor, and neither is she a senator, Naboo having officially lost its status as an independent territory of the Empire just last month. (It's a city-state; a _village_ , some whisper, their mocking tones gritting her teeth.) There's no accounting for the wonder in his expression. They've not exchanged a word, nor a glance, in five years, and yet she feels an echo of his love bloom in her own heart; a dangerous thing. No one is closer to the emperor-

Padmé blinks, and Anakin is gone.

She is alone in Palpatine's office.

A click. The harsh rasp of a respirator sounds behind her, calling to mind Cordé's final breaths.

She turns.

It's Vader.

“My lord...”

He kneels before her, his movements slow, anguished. Befuddled, her mouth parts, but she makes no query, scared to startle him from his spell into a violent outburst. Vader's head tilts back to study her, the weight of his attention tender and oddly comfortable; he looks at her as though she's a beloved painting, a piece of home no less beautiful for its familiarity.

Worshipful, Vader whispers, “ _Empress_.”

Padmé awakes in the servants' quarters of Castle Vader. Damp, cold air claws at her as she scrambles out from under the covers, but she needs to be _free_ , needs to face the future standing before her instead of lamenting the long-passed.

“Oh, I'm sorry, dear. Did I wake you?”

Agitated, it takes a moment of instinctual hostility for Padmé to realize the inquiry is sincere. Jira stops in making her bed, concern deepening the lines of her face, hand flying to her bad hip as the ache flares to a stabbing intensity.

“No, no,” Padmé answers. “I had a...”

There was terror, and horror, and disquiet, but somehow 'nightmare' doesn't fit.

Jira smiles, warm as the grandmother who'd been Padmé's first teacher. “It's Vader. His power permeates the stone; even those as insensitive as a droid can find the Force here.” She chuckles. “Rather, the Force can find _you._ ”

“So, the palace itself is infused with the dark side?”

Her roommate sobers. “Not a good dream, then?”

“Memories. Mostly.”

“A step to the left of what you remember, right?”

Padmé hesitates before nodding her assent.

Jira's hand closes over her shoulder, and she herds Padmé to the corridor.

“I see my mother,” she confesses. “I was a toddler when disease took her, couldn't describe her face or tell you the name of her killer, but when I dream? She is so clear. Beautiful. Endlessly kind. A horrible cook.” Jira giggles; Padmé returns her grin, even as her heart breaks for the little girl who'd suffered such loss. “But sometimes she says things I-I shouldn't remember don't belong to her, but I know they're someone else's words. And though I was there, though I can recall with crystal clarity her death, sometimes it's Tuskens that take her. Others, the Emperor.”

“How odd,” Padmé says, for she feels she must say _something_.

Nothing feels appropriate, nor sufficient, and they are now entering the kitchens to a round of distracted greetings. C-3PO tends the stove alongside other staff, a cute apron tied around him. Working from a nearby data port, R2 whistles taunts and beeps encouragement as needed. An oddly amicable atmosphere.

“You have combat training, yes?”

That wasn't common knowledge.

“Well I-”

Jira pulls her to a viewport. “See that lot?”

She does; they're hard to miss. An assembly of men spread across a half dozen picnic tables, curled over their plates, facial scarring and tattoos failing to hide their identical features.

Clone soldiers. Men who were officially slaughtered in the One-Year Purge, enjoying breakfast in the shade of an oak tree. Unknowns intermingle, wearing the same armor, a Rodian among them.

It's not as surprising as she feels it should be. Their empire is built on lies.

Even so: “I heard attempts to assimilate the troops failed.”

“They're not assimilated; we're all slaves here.”

Padmé turns to her, stricken by her blase attitude.

“Slavery has always been a building block of our society, dear girl.”

“The Republic-”

“Never enforced its anti-slavery laws.”

Except the rare occurrence an outside force motivated interference, she knows. It still hurts to hear.

Again, she remembers the little boy she met in Tatooine, and in so doing, the elderly food vendor he'd bought them food from.

“I thought you were free.”

Jira smiles, bitter, yet strangely content. “I'm afraid the empire is far more bold about the enslavement of its citizens. Forgive me for introducing myself as a stranger, my lady,” she bows, knuckles whitening as she clutches her hip, “I didn't want to cause you any additional stress--it was so long ago, and we talked only a few minutes.”

“You needn't.” Padmé pushes at her shoulders 'til she's once more standing tall. “Like you said, we're all slaves here.”

Jira's hand falls onto hers. “At least it's a gilded cage.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. Life here is...comfortable.”

'Comparatively' hangs between them, a dark cloud. Watto's cruel sneer. The bruise encircling Shmi's wrist. Anakin's disturbing comfort with extreme violence. Would Grievous have shared a table with her and allowed the trade? Maul? She shudders to think of Tyrannus, a perfect gentleman one moment, the monster of nightmares the next, the veil of Count Dooku abandoned at the slightest provocation.

“You deserve better.”

Her hand pats Padmé's cheek. “Everyone does. Now, go introduce yourself to your new co-workers so I can prep dinner for the third shift.”

* * *

Vader's eyelids shutter open.

He hangs suspended within a bacta tank, a flock of medical droids peering at him through the glass. Vestiges of a dream tug lazily at his consciousness, vanishing when he tries to follow them.

The agony of the lava assails him again, as it does every day, as his limbless torso is lifted from the chamber, exposing burns that never healed to the open air. Cold, pincer-like hands dig into his flesh as they as they maneuver him, their every contact an assault on his touch-starved skin. Whatever programming they'd had instructing them to be gentle, or at least pleasant, was scrubbed before they were assigned Vader's care. Pain is fury is power.

Two years, and still he trembles as the nerves connect. Cautious, Vader slowly folds his metal hands in his lap, frowning at the delay. He says nothing, however, wondering if his attendants'll notice, or care. Whatever injury he sustains is his own fault, regardless of technical issues like this, so they need not fear his master's punishment. No true Sith would allow an enemy to wound them unless it serves a purpose.

But Vader's never been a true Sith, merely a vessel of anguish, enmity, and haunting loneliness, The suit the droids place him in is a collar, its leash held firmly in the grasp of the one man who's ever truly known and accepted him. He is a slave, overseer to a company of others of his kind, a truth he is desperate to keep shrouded; he did not acquire them himself. They are hostages, and toys.

Vader himself is unsure how their deaths would effect him. He's scared they won't; perhaps grief is beyond the creature he's become.

Kitster enters his quarters, removing his helm as a sign of respect, and the medical droids depart to the adjoining chamber. Beside him is Padmé, her stance uncertain, her lips pursed. She tries too hard not to stare at the heavy scarring spread across the left side of his face, the blind eye, the lines marking where a vocalizer was implanted in his throat against his will.

(Six months ago, a mission went south. Bad intel. Instead of five foes, there were seventeen, and instead of medieval warfare, they possessed blasters and explosives― _one_ explosive. Kitster found it. Kitster was blown up. That the warehouse shared a name with a governor Vader'd killed in a fit of pique not a week before, he could not pretend it coincidence.

Gone is the voice of his first friend, and all the specter of Anakin Skywalker can have of him is contempt.)

“Commander Banai. I see you've met our newest recruit.”

“Yes, my lord.”

So brusque.

“I want her outfitted by nightfall. We will be marching-”

“ _Beg pardon_ , sir. We don't know this woman. She could be a liability.”

“A liability?” Padmé snarls.

“Or a traitor.”

By his tone, Kitster would be _delighted_ if their operation fails. Love for his men is all that keeps him from interfering himself.

“Miss Amidala's past attempts to limit the Emperor's power are exactly why she will be coming with us. I will not continue wasting resources sustaining her life if she can't prove herself useful enough to warrant his forgiveness.”

A convert is preferable to a martyr, and surely the crimes of the rebels and what she'll have to do quelling rebellions will change her viewpoint. It's a self-defense mechanism Vader's familiar with. Her value as a particularly juicy carrot to dangle in front of his nose would not be sufficient to stay his master's hand alone; he does so love public executions.

“I will not murder innocents.”

“No,” Vader agrees. “You will arrest traitors and do what you must to survive when they inevitably resist.”

Padmé scoffs. “I've seen the state of the capital prison. Killing them is mercy, and they know it. What kind of choice is that?”

Vader stiffens.

_It's so cold. The stumps of his limbs try to curl inwards, trap his body heat, but it's hard. It's so hard._ Breathing _is hard. Frost. Mold. Fumes from the mine the prison opens into. Smoke from the furnace below, where he can_ feel _Palpatine adrift in dark meditation. No, not adrift; he's searching for something. Hunting. The predatory intensity sets his heart racing, but Anakin can't focus elsewhere. The miners are droids, too simplistic for the soul he'd seen in C-3PO, as are the guard that delivers food and water every third day. The other prisoners are cut off from him, and the Force, by chips implanted near vital organs. The shadows lengthen. There's only Palpatine, and he's_ so lonely. _.._

“The same choice we all make. Every day.”

Padmé blinks, taking a reflexive step back. She's...surprised.

Under the helmet, Vader's lips twitch into a bitter smile. He's jealous, he realizes; for him, death is off the table.

Kitster's eye darts between them, lands on the bacta tank. Slides back to Vader. The consideration in his gaze defrosts the atmosphere between them, but it's harrowing, for Vader is uncertain what it could mean, what it could lead to. Perhaps acknowledgment of the existence of choice will embolden him to make his.

If so, Vader cannot hesitate to rain the empire's judgment.

“Dismissed, Commander Banai.”

Kitster nods.

Padmé watches him leave. Once her attention's returned to him, Vader says, “Do not take my mild approach thus far as humanity. The life ahead of you can still be pleasant, if you learn your place.”

“Is your life pleasant, Lord Vader?”

They are less than a foot apart. When did they drift closer? No matter; Vader takes advantage, his grip closing around her neck A flick of the wrist. A fraction of his prosthetic's strength. An ounce of dark side power. That is all it would take.

Defiant, Padmé glares into the 'eyes' of his mask, chin raised—to accommodate his hand? To expose her weakness in a show of courage?

Leather creaks as he applies a smidgen of pressure. She gasps, pulse thrumming hard enough his arm's rudimentary sensors feel it. But she does not turn away.

He ducks his head, threatens low, intimate, “My patience is not infinite, Miss Amidala. You are not a senator. You are not a governor. You are not a _mayor_. Please. Tread carefully.”

Letting go, he turns his back to her.

“Dismissed.”

* * *

“I know you, don't I?”

Cmdr. Banai looks passed her. Always passed her. The Rodian riding beside her, Wald, pats her back sympathetically as Banai's horse trots ahead to hover at the shoulder of their lord's transport.

The name of it eludes her; it's not a speeder, and it's not a pod. It ambles by at the same speed as their mounts, its silent running sending chills up her spine as she considers how else it could be used.

“Why are we on horseback instead of...?”

“Class rules,” Amee answers, spitting. “The Sith don't like sharing their toys.”

Wald grimaces. “Well, _yes_ , but also the fuel's difficult to manufacture. Everything the Sith couldn't hide got destroyed after them and the old republic shattered. Whole continent almost got vaporized in the fallout.”

“How do you know that?”

“My mom worked for the Hutts. Jabba _saw it happen_.”

'Worked'. Padmé frowns.

“Don't trust us star kids?”

“No,” Padmé refutes. But instead of hounding Wald for details of his mother, she says, “I'm just not sure why you so many chose _here._ We-we _had_ abandoned technology.”

Wald shrugs. “It's a hostile galaxy. Stars die. Black holes emerge. Empires rise, and empires fall. My grandparents couldn't bear to run any farther when they found this place. We can _breathe_ here. Do you know how rare that is?”

Padmé shakes her head.

The conversation stalls. She wonders if his grandparents would've kept going, if they'd known the fate of their descendants. She wonders if they wanted to, kept here by explosives implanted in their bloodstream. And the republic could offer no armaments, no neutralizing tech.

Perhaps the threat of alien tech is why the empire has worked so tirelessly to consume otherworlders. Kill them. Enslave them. That the Hutts and the Kaminoans remain exempt, blood money and sapient stock trading hands...

She dismisses the topic from her mind before it can make her ill.

“Anyway,” Wald begins, clicking his tongue, “Vader's too heavy for a horse, and the rebels'd have time to move if we stuck to the roads like a carriage'd make us.”

“Makes sense,” Padmé hums.

Sunlight crests the hill, chasing the dark of night. She feels so tired. The blasters clipped to her back and thigh are a familiar weight, even if she is so deeply nauseous at the thought of their targets; the weight and heat of the armor is a new hardship.

“When do we make camp?”

“Eh?”

Amee scoffs. “We don't. Hope you slept well, 'cause you won't be visiting dreamland again 'til we get back to the castle.”

“...That's ridiculous.”

Wald averts his eyes, uncomfortable. Amee smirks, _daring_ her.

Shaking her head, Padmé urges her mare into a short gallop, bringing her alongside Vader. R2 trills a greeting. Banai's hand closes over her shoulder, his horse in line with hers once more.

“Apologies, my lord.”

With an ugly snort, Padmé dislodges his hold. Ever loyal, her mare bites at Banai's stallion, startling him into a bush.

“Yes, Miss Amidala?” Vader questions, waving Banai off when he tries again to manhandle her away. He sounds exhausted, though he's sat on a mountain of red, silk pillows and not an ambling beast of flesh and bone. It enrages her.

“Your troops need rest.”

“I have heard no complaints.”

She grits her teeth. “Our horses, then. Unless you're planning to have to replace half of them for the return trip.”

“They've managed longer journeys on harsher terrain without issue.”

Something about the tone of his voice, some unnameable tension, reminds her of yesterday's plea. The hand around her throat. The _rage_.

(And the despair.)

(The feeling, not that he wouldn't hurt her, but that he didn't _want to_. That it was the last thing he could ever want. That she knew him.)

Padmé changes tactics.

“ _Why_ can't we stop for the morning?”

“Our orders are clear. Any who are unable to keep up are not fit to serve.”

“'Our orders'? This is how the emperor leads?” She sneers. “You just allow him to do this to your people?”

Banai chokes, “ _Amidala_ -”

“You're not mine. We are the emperor's.”

“We're more than that. You could be, too.”

“I'm afraid it's too late for me.” His head tilts, much as it can. “If you continue acting so reckless, you will lose every piece of yourself. Ending with your life.”

“You going to kill me, Lord Vader?”

“When my master gives the order: yes.”

They're up to a 'when'. Maybe that means she's making progress.

Burying the surge of primal fear, Padmé thinks instead on what lack of sleep causes: slow reflexes, weakened immune system, difficulty controlling emotions and behavior, microsleep, and so much more. Hallucinations. The empire losing troops should gladden her heart, but she can't apply her seething hatred to the people she's met.

She wants to save them. _Him_.

“You won't have to wait for an order if you don't let us rest.”

Vader pauses, as though only now realizing the dangers of exhaustion. His hands clench into the trousers of his suit. Padmé waits him out.

“Halt.”

The machine screeches to a sudden stop. Horses neigh, rearing onto their hind legs as riders yank their reigns.

Vader stands.

Padmé dismounts quickly, not wanting to make her mare a target. Banai follows.

The earth seems to grunt as Vader's great weight steps atop it.

“I tire of arguing with you, Miss Amidala. This time, I shall grant your request, but I'm warning you: pick your battles carefully.”

“Um, my lord?”

“You heard her, Commander Banai. Make camp. See to it everyone is taken care of.”

Pronouncement made, Vader turns on his heel, walks away.

Stunned, Padmé calls to his retreating form, “Where are you going?”

“To complete my mission.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for clarity's sake: dooku + separatists behind naboo siege → maul didn't kill qui-gon → jedi don't have a dying wish and resurgence of sith to force their hand → jedi reject chosen one, qui-gon was bluffing about leaving order to train him
> 
> in this au, maul lost his legs in a duel with dooku to decide who would lead separatists as sidious's proxy, odds were very much stacked against him as he'd been raised as an attack dog, not a politician, his winning couldn't be allowed; plus dooku = ex-jedi = trusted, sith not revealed yet


End file.
